


You don’t know what’s in my head

by winter_angst



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Brock’s Journey to Hydra, Child Abuse, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, No Dialogue, Other, low calorie angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:07:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26176933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter_angst/pseuds/winter_angst
Summary: Brock Rumlow has his reasons for joining Hydra.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	You don’t know what’s in my head

**Author's Note:**

> So this is an odd sort of story that was bugging me for a while. Please note the tags. Child Abuse is a heavy theme. 
> 
> Title from I Don’t Give a by MISSIO
> 
> not beta’d all mistakes are my own

At one point Brock wondered why his father didn’t love him. What crime he’d committed that was so atrocious it drove his father to hate him. Brock learned he was useless when he was six, that he was stupid at seven and that he deserved the punishments at ten. It didn’t occur to Brock to tell someone, he assumed this was how all fathers were. Later, when he realized what happened in the two bedroom trailer wasn’t normal, he was too ashamed to tell. Who would ever openly admit that their parent, the one meant to love them unconditionally, didn’t care about their child. 

Bruises were a badge of shame, one to be hidden under too small sweaters because he was clumsy, he’d just ruin nice clothes. The thing with old clothes is that they look permanently dirty and children were cruel and gladly pointed it out. Brock was pushed the fringe, his peers interacting only to tease and remind Brock that his father was right: he was a loser, a waste of fucking space. 

When his mother left, just after the start of first grade, things escalated from long hours in the corner and kneeling naked on bits of gravel from the yard, to close handed hits and kicks while wearing work boots. Brock hated his mother in those moments but deep down he wondered why he was so bad she had to go away.

At eleven Brock began to ask God to take him away. When he turned twelve and God hadn’t he learned that God also hated him. He was meant to suffer. At thirteen Brock stumbled upon a Play Boy and felt absolutely nothing. But, when he was picking up bottles before his father came back from work, a workout infomercial boasted a large, muscular man glistening in sweat and Brock… Brock definitely felt something.

It was another secret squirreled away. Warren was a small town, church based, and he knew they’d never accept it. Brock’s father would probably kill him. He was bad enough as is, in his father’s opinion. The very last thing he needed was extra ammo for when he barraged insults after he’d tuckered himself out beating Brock. Brock always cried (“like a little fucking bitch”, in his father’s opinion) but somehow his words cut deeper than the physical wounds. Because it was all true.

Sometimes Brock thought that it would be best if his father went too far one night. There had been moments where Brock thought he’d do it. Once he slammed Brock’s head against a wall where a stud was sticking out. But after Brock got hurt, really hurt, it was like a flip switch. His father was nice to him, didn’t drink much, sometimes going so far as to get him little gifts though he took them back once he reverted to his previous self — due to Brock of course, if only he could be better… 

But there was no better for Brock, no way to ever appease his father. He swung from mood to mood, an electrician by day, a violent alcoholic at night. Punishing his son, work and booze was all he knew. The reason for punishment varied between made up reasons, small infractions and imaginary crimes Brock had committed. 

Not all punishments were inflicted to Brock by his own hands. Sometimes it was making Brock pull thick roots from the ground under the trailer with his bare hands. The roots would cut into his hands and his skin would bleed and crack for days afterwards. Brock knew his father liked that, he’d hover around while Brock did dishes, just to hear the hissed breaths he released as hot soapy water irritated his flesh. Brock always tried not to make a sound, tried to grit his teeth so he didn’t get the satisfaction. But Brock was weak, exactly as his father said.

Some days he knew his father was a sick man and that this wasn’t a normal way of life. But other days he wondered if it was just him bringing out all this ugliness in what would have been a good man. There was a reason his mom had left — Brock himself. His father couldn’t be lying about that. 

The trailer was situated on its own lot of about two acres. It was surrounded by trees with a long snaking dirt drive that Brock shoveled very winter and filled in every summer. Weather extremes were nothing to him anymore. Sweltering summers and freezing cold winters were nothing. The longer he was outside the less time he was around his father. Some punishments were actually rewards in that regard. 

But it wasn’t all bad, not during those sparse moments of light hearted banter, of an arm sling around Brock’s shoulder. It was those moments that tied Brock down further. His father showed enough humanity to be considered a person rather than a monster. But he had a way of manifesting anger. He would dial up to sixty from zero in a heartbeat. It made it challenging, if not impossible, for Brock to pinpoint what would send him into a rage. Sometimes Brock thought his father was a villain, like on TV. The monster in the closet, the serial killer closing in. And that meant Brock was the victim, the one cowering under his bedsheets, the one begging for another shot, another chance before he was killed off. 

Brock had a way with people. Even though he was far from popular he knew how to manipulate and con those around him. Whether it was convincing his peers to give up their least favorite foods on their lunch bags or slipping under the radar of the teachers. He had a temper, he was like his father in that regard. When one of his classmates said or did something he didn’t like he never hesitated to grab them, slam them against a locker and pop them in the jaw. 

But Brock never got saddled with the blame. He had learned how to be suave and smile in a way that no one could actually put blame on him. Brock quickly became a bully, but one who never got caught. It was because of those skills that he maintained a clean record all the way up through highschool.

As Brock aged things in the Rumlow household got tense. Brock knew he was big enough now to fight back but any attempts were defeated by his father. Height wise, Brock was inferior, taking after his mother rather than his father and that gave his dad an extra forty five pounds on him. It created a tense household, the animosity between them sat heavy, like a lead vest. Stifling, suffocating, a battle of wills.

Brock practically tracked down a recruiter, signing away before the ink on his highschool diploma was dry. He wanted out, he wanted something he knew he was good at: violence. So he asked for the front lines. 

Basic training was easy for him. He had been yelled at his life so it was like home, but without being beaten. If anything he enjoyed it. The army was hard. Brock’s hatred of authority was tested time and time again but Brock grit his teeth and focused on getting through. He excelled for the first time in his life. 

He wasn’t a loser anymore; he was a soldier.

He put three years into the army before he was pulled aside and told about the Marines and black operations. He passed his ASVAB and MEPS and like that he was enlisted. It was nothing but a boost to his pride: he was too good for the army. 

The Marines felt even more familiar than the army and he found his niche in the world. Working under the guise of night, protecting the world.

Then Shield came around asking him to lead a covert team and he was chomping at the bit to take that opportunity. And when Secretary Pierce told about his organization, about how Hydra was looking to rid the world of violence so everyone could live peacefully, Brock couldn’t agree fast enough.

He knew no one should have to live the way he had, to be beaten and belittled every day. Hydra would fix it. People like his father wouldn’t exist in the perfect world Hydra was creating. And when Piece said ‘order through pain’ Brock knew he could withstand any pain necessary. He had for years. He would do it again for the rest of the people in their sorry, sorry world. For the betterment of humankind.


End file.
